


Johnny B Goode

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Father - daughter bonding over badly played guitars.





	Johnny B Goode

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm in fic withdrawal after finishing The One Thing We Got, and just watched Maron play out on Conan. This is the result.

 

“Just—what—I thought you were staying for a week? What _is_ this?” he says, as Justine passes him another bag from the luggage compartment of the Greyhound. 

“Clothes,” Justine says coldly, “and my guitar.”

“Oh. You play now?”

“Yes,” she says, shouldering the offending instrument. “You’re the one who told me I should learn to be my own fucking person.”

“True. Right. I did say that.” He winces at the weight of her case. “Just not sure why you’re carrying the _weight_ of person around in fucking suitcases. What’ve you got in here? Rocks?”

“I told you. Clothes.” Her mouth twists. “I think that one has my boots in it.”

“No shit.” He points with his elbow. “Head that way. The _Riviera_ , you won’t fucking miss it.”

* * *

He’s trying to write. _Trying_ being the operative word here, as Justine futzes about on the guitar, badly distorted. He shakes his head. “How the fuck is that so loud?” he shouts.

“ _What_?”

He crosses from the typewriter to the adjoining door. “Noise!” he shouts. “How can you be making so much of it?”

“Oh!” She stills the strings, mercifully. “There’s an amp built into the case.”

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to _work_ —”

“So am I! I’m in a band now.”

“Really?”

“Yes! _Sisters Diabalo_. We’re working on an album.”

“Mm-hm. So, what’s the title? Variations on a Trash Compactor? Alleyway Cats on Heat?”  

“What happened to you being a supportive father figure?”

“That was before my eardrums were assaulted for forty minutes by a… fucked up D chord with too much distortion. I don’t mind you practicing but turn the amp _down_.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Wait. You know guitar chords?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know chords. I told you – I lived through the nineteen fifties. How else do you think we tried to impress girls? Don’t – don’t actually answer that...”

She holds the guitar out towards him by the neck. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Play.”

“Oh, Jesus.” But he takes the offending instrument, slipping the strap around his neck. “Turn it down,” he says again, and this time she twists a dial. He strums the strings. “You’re out of tune.”

She puts her head on one side. “It’s in dropped D.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” He twists a peg, bringing the sixth string back up to where it should be in standard tuning.

“It’s better for a heavy sound.”

He strikes the strings again, a C chord; more satisfied with the sound that returns. “Who told you that?”

“I read it, actually,” she snaps back, in tones of sing-song sarcasm.

“Huh. You don’t have a teacher?”

“No.”

He stills the strings. “You want one?”

“No! All the best players are self-taught.”

He looks sceptical. “But they jam with other better players, right? Learn to play along with records? No one just gets good on their own.”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to protest; closes it again. Perhaps he’s given her some food for thought. “What are _you_ going to play?” Maybe she’s just decided there’s more mileage in humiliating him.

“I dunno. There’s not much I remember.”

“Was it all… rock and roll?”

“Yeah, mostly.” He runs his fingers along the frets. There’s something there, in the back of his mind, half-remembered from a lifetime ago. “Maybe—”

He lets his hindbrain take over, muscle memory, and plays the opening riff of _Johnny B Goode_ like he’s Marty McFly at high school prom.

Justine folds her arms. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?”

“You can really _play_.”

“Well, that one riff, maybe—”

“Teach me,” she says.

He pulls a face. He’s got scripts to edit, a screenplay to finish, and Bash’s expenses to work out – advanced mathematics if ever there was some. “Aw, c’mon—” he starts, and stops. Hurt is creeping into her expression already at his rejection. He sighs. “ _Fine_.” Takes a seat next to her on the bed and hands back the guitar. “The first bit is actually pretty easy…”

 


End file.
